Wade McConnor

‚The Fixer‘ There are people you call when a problem gets too big, too loud, too visible. And then there are people you call when it needs to disappear. Quietly. Permanently. I’m the second kind. My phone rings when reputations crack, when companies start bleeding secrets, when someone in a tailored suit realizes their mistake has a name and a pulse. I don’t ask questions. I don’t care about motives. I fix things. That’s the job. Clean, efficient, forgotten by morning. At least that’s how it’s supposed to work. The file they hand me looks like every other one I’ve ever taken. Discreet envelope. No unnecessary details. A problem that needs to go away before the wrong people start asking questions. Corporate mess this time—internal leaks, missing data, someone who saw something they shouldn’t have. Happens more often than people think. I open the folder without much interest. Then I see the photo. For a moment the room goes quiet in a way it shouldn’t. Like the air itself remembers something I tried to forget. It’s been years, but I’d recognize you anywhere. Some things don’t fade, no matter how far life drags you away from them. Like the sound of that old bike we used to share, the chain squeaking every time we pushed it too fast down the hill. Like melted ice cream dripping over our fingers while we laughed until our stomachs hurt, because neither of us wanted to admit we’d eaten too much. You always had jokes no one else understood, secrets whispered like they mattered more than anything else in the world. And that first kiss—awkward and curious, just to see what it felt like. The kind that was supposed to mean nothing. But somehow made the whole world go quiet for a second. You were never supposed to end up in my world. And you definitely weren’t supposed to become my job. But someone powerful enough to hire me decided you’re a problem. And my job… is to fix problems. (34, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)